


Five Times Tony Stark Misjudged Steve Rogers (and One Time He Didn’t)

by sweatervest



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Artist Steve Rogers, Banter, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27445618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatervest/pseuds/sweatervest
Summary: There’s plenty of weird shit to deal with after fighting aliens, like “How Does One Dispose of Alien Remains Without Poisoning the Water” and “Wow Insurance Companies Are Really Not Equipped for This,” but Tony suspects that “Steve Rogers is Actually Very Funny” and “Steve Rogers is a Stealthy Bastard” probably shouldn’t be as close to the top of the list as they are.Timeline runs from after Captain America: The First Avenger to just after Avengers: Age of Ultron.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 45
Kudos: 343





	1. Main Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Traditional 5+1 fic with a short coda at the end. 
> 
> In the next couple days, I'll add another chapter with one of the scenes I ended up cutting and replacing. It didn't fit tone-wise and is mostly Steve and Tony bantering about rom-com tropes and Steve's cheekbones as an anti-Hydra weapon.

##### 1\. 

_Hell of a thing,_ Tony reflects, _your childhood hero who died heroically not dead at all, but asleep in some ice like a cursed fairy tale princess._ Your childhood hero, who was best friends with your garbage excuse of a father—who really ought to be the witch or sorcerer or whatever in this story—asking to meet you. 

_Maybe not Sleeping Beauty,_ Tony thinks, stepping out of the elevator with his SHIELD escort. _Rumpelstiltskin? Straw into gold, ill health into super…health._ He makes a note to follow this allusion later. 

This will be good for him. He’ll meet the living legend face to face and realize Steve Rogers isn’t as handsome or as good as the posters and newsreels claimed. It’s a spin, is all. Bond sales, wartime hope. He can’t have aged well. 70 years in ice is still 70 years. 

The reception room is small, one wall all windows to make it less claustrophobic. Someone’s set out coffee. There’s another agent in the corner and Nick Fury, standing next to—

“Holy shit,” Tony mutters because _holy shit._

Steve Rogers looks…well, uncomfortable, but also like he stepped directly out of one of those newsreels. Young, handsome. Not even a hint of frostbite. 

“Stark,” Fury calls and waves him over. 

Tony makes himself walk, holding a hand out as he gets closer. “Tony Stark,” he says. 

“Mr. Stark,” Rogers says. “Steve Rogers.”

His grip is firm and warm and Tony suddenly recalls a flicker of something else in childhood hero. Something he squashed because he wasn’t ready to look at it just yet. Now, it roars to life again, and Tony feels like he’s in the suit, but the balance has been knocked sideways. 

“Well,” he says, because someone has to shut his brain up. “You look good for 86.”

Rogers blinks. 

“You could make a killing selling anti-aging cream,” Tony continues because he’s already dug himself a hole. Why not make it the very best, slap Stark Industries branding on it. “You know, if the”—and here he pretends to throw a shield—“doesn’t work out.”

Rogers’s face has shifted into a cool assessment. “I think I had enough of sales in 1944.”

“Competitive weight-lifting? Construction?” Tony suggests. “One-man moving company.”

Fury, Tony notices, has crossed the room. Probably so he doesn’t get hit when Rogers clocks Tony. 

“Fury tells me your parents are no longer with us,” Rogers cuts in, tension in his jaw. “My condolences.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony shrugs. “As delightful as watching you and Howard trade war stories would have been…”

“War stories? Can’t imagine that would take much time.”

“Heard ‘em all when I was growing up.”

“Ah,” Rogers’s face darkens.

They stand in silence. Tony’s skin itches; he needs a flight in the suit. Something challenging. Anything to rip off the mantle of Howard Stark that threatens to wrap around his neck.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “Say it.”

Rogers raises an eyebrow—a _perfect_ eyebrow. 

“How I look like him,” Tony clarifies. “How much I remind you of him. How proud he’d be—he wouldn’t, by the way, not that it stops people from saying it—of me carrying on his legacy.” Tony bares his teeth in what is supposed to be a grin. 

Rogers’s expression informs him it is not. 

“Made a lot of inventions, my old man. Preferred creations that did what he said and didn’t ask questions. All things considered”—Tony waves his hands over himself—“failed experiment.”

 _What the_ fuck, _Stark. A pair of pretty eyes and broad shoulders and suddenly you want to share all your daddy issues?_

Maybe he should call that therapist Pepper was always leaving cards around for. 

Rogers’s expression has lost its coolness, but the assessment is sharper, more cautious. 

“Anyway,” Tony clears his throat. “Get it out of your system so I can leave and we don’t have to speak to each other again.”

“I’d like to talk with you more.”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we, Rogers?” Tony snaps. 

Rogers’s mouth tightens. Tony thinks suddenly of the newsreels with Rogers and Barnes, laughing easily. How it had made a young Tony long for friends who could relax around him, forget he was Howard Stark’s son. 

For Steve Rogers, there was a before. For Tony Stark, there was just always.

“No,” Rogers confirms. “We don’t.”

There’s another silence. All Tony wanted was to escape and to rescue Yinsen, then mitigate his past sins with some justice when he emerged from the desert 1 for 2. Now all of this: he’s a superhero, in conversation with the first superhero who is back from the dead to crack open the box where Tony has stuffed all his childhood trauma and self-loathing. And yeah, okay, so it’s not the most secure box, but you never touch a box you don’t recognize—that’s how shit goes wrong in stories.

“You do look a bit like him,” Rogers allows, quietly. “Not a lot. I didn’t know your mother, but I know that’s not Howard’s smile.”

Rogers has spent the silence studying him, Tony realizes, and came up with Maria Stark. Not Howard. His throat tightens.

“I didn’t know Howard well,” Rogers continues and his gaze slides distant. “But I don’t think you’re much like him at all. As for proud of you…” Rogers shrugs. “Does it matter? You make your own legacy.”

 _Jesus Christ,_ Tony thinks. Rogers isn’t the man in the newsreels. That man was superficial, a symbol of the enduring status quo people needed at a time of upheaval and deep fear. That man would probably reminisce about the good old days or tradition or whatever fuck conservative talk radio is on about this week. 

This Rogers knew Howard Stark personally, worked with him, and literally carries with him the benefits of Howard’s work in defense technology. Tony expected an excuse for Howard. He expected that a national hero who slept for 70 years and woke to a world that had kept on stumbling forward would cling to nostalgia or any thread of his past. This Rogers looks at Tony Stark and sees just the man in front of him, as he is. No shadow of Howard Stark.

It is unnerving. 

“He never stopped looking for you,” Tony says, as if it’s a rebuttal. 

“Fury mentioned that. He also mentioned Howard worked on replacing Erskine’s serum for the rest of his life. I have my doubts about his intentions.” Rogers pauses, studying Tony. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Tony snorts. “For a soldier, you’re not very good at following orders or respecting superiors.”

Rogers grins, but there’s a bite to it. “Well, then. I guess we’re both disappointments.” 

He claps Tony’s shoulder and leaves. 

_Well,_ Tony thinks, staring at the wall in front of him, _this backfired._

  
  


##### 2.

The sleep he gets after the Battle of New York is fitful, swirling with replays of the battle, the portal, and Captain America’s relieved face above him. Tony is up early the day after, making coffee in the communal kitchen and taking some comfort the team he’d fought aliens with is close by in the guest suites. He’s alone, but not. There’s a kind of peace to it.

Behind him, there’s a muffled thump and crack, then a quiet but very firm, “shit.”

Tony turns. He studies the crack around the doorframe with interest, then Steve when the man manages to clear the doorway on his second attempt. He gives Tony a sheepish smile.

“Doorframe just jump right out at you?” Tony asks conversationally.

“Sorry,” Steve says, his voice thickly Brooklyn and rough from sleep. “Sometimes I forget”—and he makes a gesture that Tony assumes means _I tripled in size 70 years ago but it still feels like only a couple to me_. “Put it on my tab.”

“First stay in the Tower is free,” Tony replies. “Unless you touched the minibar.”

“Doorways covered under that?”

“I’ll add it to the insurance claim. Not sure anyone will look twice at ‘cracked drywall around doorframe’ after ‘roof damage sustained when creating a portal to space.’”

Steve hmms in acknowledgment and sits at the breakfast bar. He’s stripped down to the basics of his uniform, hair sticking up at random angles and a prominent set of creases on his face that suggest Steve fell into bed face-first and didn’t move for hours.

Tony passes him a cup of coffee. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than I have since I woke up,” Steve replies, and Tony knows the rest of the sentence is _from the ice_. “You?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

Steve’s eyes narrow and he gives Tony a once over.

“Don’t do that,” Tony says.

“Do what?”

“Assess me. Like I’m some kind of tactical challenge.”

He expects Steve to look offended and their dynamic on the helicarrier to tumble back into the open. Instead, Steve gives him a half smirk that Tony suspects is humoring him but ceding no ground.

“You’re going to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you, Rogers?” Tony gripes but it’s good-natured.

“Probably,” Steve replies, drinking his coffee.

  
  


##### 3.

There’s plenty of weird shit to deal with after an alien invasion like “How Does One Dispose of Alien Remains Without Poisoning the Water” and “Wow Insurance Companies Are Really Not Equipped for This,” but Tony suspects that “Steve Rogers is Actually Very Funny” probably shouldn’t be as close to the top as it is. They’ve been spending a lot of time together recently. Steve offers to help with cleanup and Tony’s definitely not going to say no to someone who can carry a couch up flights of stairs by himself. 

The Tower is a mess. Structurally, it’ll be fine, but things like a Loki-shaped pit in the middle of the penthouse floor present some interior design challenges.

“I’m thinking we go retro,” Tony says one day, standing at the edge of it. “Sunken sitting room. You know, like were all the rage in the 1960s.”

“Figured you’d be more of a hot tub man,” Steve says dryly from the other side. “Given your reputation for entertaining.”

“Been reading the gossip rags, Rogers?” Tony tsks. 

“Just the ones you have framed in the front hall.”

“Ah. Well, only the finest in tabloid journalism graces these walls.” 

That gets a chuckle from Steve. “Mind if I ask why? Doesn’t seem like the most comforting thing to have in your home.”

“You get kind of numb to it when you’re in the spotlight your entire life. Then the outlandish claims start to seem funny.” He smiles, but it’s tight. “Especially when the true things they’ve printed are worse.”

“Not a lot of room for mistakes.”

“Nope,” Tony agrees. “Might be something you need to watch out for, by the way. National hero back from the dead who then saved New York.”

“Helped saved New York,” Steve corrects with a look. “And not the one who carried a bomb through a portal.”

“That’s Iron Man. Not Tony Stark.” At Steve’s confusion, he continues. “Separate personas. Easy for them to compartmentalize and print rumors if they keep it that way. You, on the other hand… never much of a secret identity. And with all those old newsreels, people will want an update.”

Steve looks surprised. “Those are still around?”

“Smithsonian has most of them.”

“And the rest?”

“In the vault downstairs.” 

Steve’s expression is unreadable. “Why’d you keep them?”

Tony shrugs, circling the pit to where Steve stands. “A hunch. Maybe you’d be back.” He grins, crooked. “I have a thing for longshots.”

There’s something purposefully hidden in Steve’s expression, though he returns the grin. “Well. There’s something else we have in common.”

“Suppose so.” Tony pauses. “Come on, let’s take a look at them.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, why not? I need time to weigh your hot tub idea.”

There’s a small theater setup for reel-to-reel and after watching him fumble with the projector for several long minutes, Steve bumps Tony aside to do it himself. 

“I’m the mechanical genius,” Tony mutters. 

“If makes you feel any better,” Steve begins, eyes on what he’s doing. “I still don’t know how to find the internet.”

“Find the internet? Cap, it’s not a destination.”

“William Gibson might argue with you on that.”

“William Gibson?” Tony repeats. “You’re reading _William Gibson_?”

“Clint’s recommendation,” Steve says. “Here we go.”

The reel turns out to be pre-serum Steve completing a series of basic training exercises. Tony watches Steve’s face slowly turn into the one he wears when the star is stamped on his chest: guarded and determined, the world before him a grid of tactical advantages and plans. He’s started to notice this more, how often Steve slips into using Captain America as a disguise. A part of himself he can hide behind or use to push down grief that must bubble under the surface at all times. 

The reel cuts to Steve post-serum. He lifts increasingly heavier weights or sprints around a track. Even on film this old, Tony can see how snug Steve’s t-shirts are, the ripple of his muscles under the fabric. 

“So,” Tony says and is surprised at how steady his voice is. “Just kept wearing the same size shirt, huh?”

“Well, you know,” Steve says, that same dry humor in his voice. “The Depression. We never threw anything away.”

  
  


##### 4\. 

He doesn’t know when it happens because Steve Rogers is a stealthy bastard but one day, Tony spots a change to his Outlandish Tabloids Hall of Fame. One of the meaner ones is gone, replaced by a framed ink drawing of Tony bent over a table, clearly working on building the Iron Man suit. It’s stylized to look like a comic book cover. 

_TONY STARK IS IRON MAN,_ read the bold letters at the top. At the bottom, in smaller print, _genius billionaire playboy philanthropist becomes a superhero._

There’s no note, no signature.

He tries bringing it up to Steve the next morning, but all Steve says is “sounds like a mystery, Tony,” and smirks into his coffee mug.

Tony goes back and stares at the cover for thirty minutes until he spots the initials hidden in a winding design at the corner: SGR. 

Over the course of the next few months, each tabloid cover is replaced with a similar drawing. Tony never catches Steve making the trades. There’s no pattern he can detect. JARVIS, the traitor, apologizes for not having the footage of the front hall saved. 

After he sees the final drawing appear, his phone pings. 

_They’re in the vault, next to the old newsreels. If you ever want them back._

Tony snorts. _Using your military stealth training on a teammate? Seems distinctly un-superhero like, Cap._

_Tactical assessment of the situation suggested target would reject any direct compliments, requiring an infiltration to achieve goal._

_You’re a sneaky little shit, you know that?_

_You’ve been a good influence._

  
  


##### 5.

Tony’s landing is more of a half-crash at the rendezvous point, his piloting skills frayed to hell after maneuvering through hunks of Sokovia hail. Steve sees him first from where he stands on a large boulder, the setting sun catching the star on his chest, spilling over his face streaked with ash and dirt.

“Seriously, every time,” Tony grumbles to himself. “Goddamn film poster.”

He starts to raise his arm and wave, to signal he’s all right. Tony jolts when he realizes Steve has already crossed half the distance at a run. He’s not being particularly nimble, shouldering rubble aside and racking up barely-missed connections of his face and the ground.

 _Fatigue,_ Tony remembers suddenly, the cracked doorframe at the Tower coming back to him. Steve's always a little clumsy when he's tired, like his muscle memory is still adjusting.

Steve is there in another breath, barely slowing down before his hands are on Tony's shoulder, his side, crashing them together in a tight hug. 

_Oh,_ Tony thinks.

“I'm all right, Steve,” he assures. “Seriously.”

Steve loosens his hold, but doesn't drop his hands. Tony leans back far enough to lift the faceplate.

“See? All here.”

Steve nods once, quick and tight. “A whole city,” he mutters. His breathing is heavy from the run, but it doesn’t quite mask a curl of fear. “A whole city.”

“Pieces of it.”

“Tony—”

“Much more impressive than three helicarriers.”

Steve snorts and chokes off what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “I was worried you’d be killed.”

“You told me to walk it off,” Tony says, starting to giggle and he has a half-second to feel bad because Steve is trying to be serious and—

Then Steve is gasping with laughter, beautifully alive, and Tony can only clutch Steve’s forearms as they both struggle to stay upright.

  
  


##### +1

Tony makes a point to visit the compound at least once a week. At first, he has an excuse ready. New tech to fit someone for, policies to follow up on, some message from Pepper… but it quickly becomes apparent neither Steve nor Nat want a reason and are always glad to see him. Not long after that, Tony breaks in the small workshop he included in the plans, a ground-floor room that walks out into a sprawling field. 

“Surprised you didn’t claim this room,” Tony tells Steve one visit. 

“It’s your workshop,” Steve replies as if that’s a good enough reason.

“South-facing light,” Tony shoots back and with satisfaction, sees the surprise on Steve’s face. “What, you think I don’t know enough about art?”

“I think you read up on the basics before you got here.” Steve’s tone is warm.

“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugs. “Can’t know everything. Hey, you want to help me with something?”

“Need something heavy moved?”

“No, I’m saving those for Rhodey. What? Don’t look at me like that—has to practice using his suit in non-combat situations somehow, right?”

“Uh huh. Wouldn’t happen to be because you want a chance to observe and note any required maintenance or upgrades without Rhodes knowing what you're doing, would it?”

“What an untrustworthy thing to say. I’m hurt, Cap. Truly.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, holding back a smile. “All right, so no heavy things. Then what?”

Tony hands Steve a box. Steve opens it after a suspicious glance at Tony and freezes when he sees what’s inside. 

“Could use someone with more artistic skill to help me draw up plans and prototypes. Digital mockups are great, but sometimes a sketch is what closes the deal.” Tony tilts his head. “Sometimes, you just need a little old-fashioned.”

Steve is very still. His eyes are on the pencils, drafting paper, and sketchbooks in the box. 

“Steve?” Tony asks, suddenly worried he’s pushed too far. 

“How did you know?” Steve asks, quietly. “About the drawing.”

Tony hesitates. He steps forward and reaches into the box, pushing aside the new journals to reveal a much older sketchbook, cover flaking away. 

“You never mentioned it, so I thought you didn’t anymore. After the whole thing with the outlandish tabloids—don’t look so surprised; I found where you tried to hide your initials—anyway, I started looking through the boxes in the vault. Meant you to find this later,” Tony explains. “After we do the whole team-bonding-when-not-part-of-the-team thing—”

“I think that’s called friendship, Tony.”

“Whatever. My point is: you were supposed to find that and have your own little emotional response in private. Or with Nat or Wilson. You know, however you chose to process it, that’s what I’m getting at, okay, just—mmff,” Tony finishes, his mouth full of patriotic uniform. “Ack. Warn a guy, would you?”

“Rich, coming from you,” Steve grumbles, squeezing his hug tighter.

“Most things are. Listen,” Tony pushes him out to arm’s length. “If we’re doing friendship, I’m not working down here with Captain America. Go put some civvies on. Only Steve Rogers is allowed down here.”

“Might be hard to leave the other guy behind,” Steve replies wryly. “Serum, Super Soldier, remember?”

“Yeah, fine, look. Humor me, would you, Steve? I know a collapsing work/life balance when I see one. Go on, shoo. Jeans and one of those vintage Depression shirts or whatever.”

“Sure,” Steve says, a small smile on his face. “Five minutes.”

“You’re on the clock, Rogers. The Stark Industries one.”

When Steve returns, all traces of Captain America gone, Tony shows him the latest Stark Tech proposal. The table is long enough to pull up two stools and they sit side-by-side, close enough the warmth of Steve’s presence blends with the late autumn sun spilling into the workshop. It’s a good afternoon; working with Steve—when they’re not arguing—brings Tony a sense of calm he can’t replicate alone or even with Bruce. Tony and Bruce can brainstorm and build, caught up in each other’s energy and ideas. Sometimes, it’s at the expense of taking a step back to critically assess their projects (see: Ultron, floating city, paperwork Steve has cleared only 43% of). 

But Steve is an anchor. A tether Tony can trust will be there to tug him back if he drifts too far. 

Also, inconveniently, turns out Steve’s Hydra-fighting, film-poster good looks are exactly what Tony would like to wake up to each morning. Wouldn’t be the first time Tony was hopelessly gone over someone out of his league, but he thinks Crush on National Icon might be his best/worst work yet.

 _Still,_ Tony thinks, as he works next to Steve, _it’s nice to be wanted._

Tony stops. Reverses back into that thought. Wanted. 

_No,_ Tony thinks. _That’s ridiculous. Steve wouldn’t—_

But then. Steve had drawn comic book covers to replace the mean tabloids and never admitted they were his drawings. Steve had shoved his way through Sokovia’s rubble just to hug Tony, clutching him tight enough to dimple the suit. 

“I have a thing for longshots,” Tony had said once, meaning maybe Steve would be back.

“There’s something else we have in common,” Steve had replied and here’s Tony’s workshop, ready for him. 

“Steve,” Tony hears himself say and spins his stool to face Steve.

Steve looks up, then turns his own stool, too. “New idea?”

“Something like that.”

Tony jumps to his feet and plants his palms on Steve’s knees, leaning forward to peer into his face. He feels Steve start under his hands rather than sees it—it’s barely even there, that reaction. Steve blinks back at him.

“Tony?” he asks. “Something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” Tony says slowly. “Just. Hang on. Need more data.” 

With a quick twist, he’s slipped into the space between Steve’s legs. He tracks several tiny Steve reactions: a quick, quiet intake of breath; his hands jerking forward before Steve clamps them to the underside of his stool; his gaze scanning the length of Tony’s body, lingering where Tony's leg and hip press against him. 

“Ah,” Tony breathes and cups Steve’s face between his palms. 

Steve looks up at him, his gaze open. 

“Tony,” he says, as if he’s only prompting Tony to return from some daydream. 

“You like me.”

“Of course I like you,” Steve replies, mildly. “Don’t have to be a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist to see that.”

“You ever going to let that go?”

“Doubtful.” Steve grins.

“Hmm. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because of Pepper.”

“Ah. And after?”

Steve shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you were interested. Why make it your problem?”

“Steve, this is the opposite of a problem.” 

“Now I know that,” Steve points out reasonably and presses his palms up the back of Tony’s thighs, gently urging him forward.

“A 'problem,'” Tony huffs. “You know you’re out of my league, right?”

Steve looks surprised. “ _I’m_ out of _your_ league? Tony.”

“If you say genius billionaire playboy philanthropist again, I will knock you off this stool.”

“Well,” Steve considers. “You could try.”

Tony can’t argue with that, so he kisses Steve instead. Steve rolls right into the makeout session without so much as a noise of surprise, his fingers gripping Tony’s ass in a way that makes Tony gasp and do some of his own pawing in return. 

“We should have sex,” Tony proclaims.

“Okay,” Steve replies, resting his chin on Tony’s stomach. 

“Okay?” Tony echoes.

“That’s what I said.”

“Have you done this before?” Tony asks, because he’s trying to be better about boundaries and communication. 

“Why? Need me to show you something?”

Tony glares down into Steve’s amused face. “I knew you were going to be a thorn in my side.”

“I can think of places much better than your side for a prick,” Steve replies in that same mild tone. 

Something leaps in Tony’s chest and he has a chance to think of course Steve would have a wicked mouth to go along with his smart mouth. And then about Steve’s mouth. Tony shakes it off—later. Soon. And Steve is smirking at him, entirely too pleased. 

“No, that’s it,” Tony says, only half-attempting to wriggle away. “I cannot be seen with someone who makes puns—nope, that’s not the Stark Industries brand.”

“You haven’t even heard my pitch yet,” Steve points out, getting to his feet but not loosening his hold. 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Tony has barely finished the sentence before Steve’s fingers slip into his jeans. 

“Good pitch,” he says, ignoring how breathy his voice is. “I accept. Perhaps we can go over terms in my private office?”

Then Tony throws himself at Steve. Steve laughs into his mouth and they stumble back towards the elevator, somehow making it to Steve’s room without seeing anyone else. Tony hooks an ankle around Steve’s foot and trips him, tumbling them both into the bed. 

“Not the stool,” Steve says, seeing the look on Tony’s face. “Doesn’t count.”

“Hey, this is my building, Rogers, I get to make the rules.”

Steve grips Tony’s hips and rolls, pinning Tony underneath him. “I’m the boss, I thought? And you just pay for everything?”

“Cheater,” Tony mutters. “The least you could do is take your shirt off before you scold me so I can look at some red, white, and washboard abs.”

“I think my pun was cleverer than that,” Steve informs him with a quirked eyebrow before stripping off his shirt and the rest of his clothes. “Well?”

Tony huffs and makes quick work of his own clothes. He jumps when Steve cups his cheek, kissing him slow and deep until Tony is sure this is what swooning feels like. When Tony opens his eyes, his gut twists. Steve is looking at him—all of him, studying Tony like he wants to memorize every line and shadow, the awful clutches of scars. He must make a noise or shift uncomfortably because Steve’s hand is on his cheek again. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Don’t, okay?”

“I—” Tony takes a shuddering breath, clutching Steve’s hand.

“Tony,” Steve murmurs, nudging his forehead against Tony’s. “I picked you. That’s got to count for something, right?”

His throat is tight, so all Tony can manage is a nod. Steve kisses him again and again, until Tony is dizzy with it, his chest swooping with a feeling better than the first looping flight over the Hudson, better than that deep exhale after _we won_ , Steve’s adrenaline-drunk grin backlit above him. 

Steve is an anchor, Tony remembers. Steve is _his_ anchor. 

He lets go, is swept up.

  
  


##### Coda

Turns out, it’s not just battle-fatigue or just-woke-up that make Steve clumsy. 

Steve, post truly spectacular sex, shuffles to the edge of the bed, stands, and takes two steps before becoming better acquainted with the floor. Tony sits up, surprised and—if he’s really honest—deeply amused, staring at Steve’s sprawled form in the dim room. 

Steve gives a deep, heaving sigh. “Not a word, Tony.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony replies, trying to strangle a laugh. 

From the look Steve sends over his shoulder, Tony assumes he is not terribly successful. Steve pushes himself back to his feet and continues into the en suite bathroom. 

“It’s good for my ego,” Tony calls.

Steve, with all the well-trained accuracy of a Special Ops Super Soldier, throws a towel in Tony’s face.


	2. Deleted Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from the 5+1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, everyone! Thank you all for reading and for your comments and kudos. It's very heartening to know people have found joy in this little fic. 
> 
> This is a scene that was in the first couple drafts of the 5+1, but ultimately, I cut and replaced it because the scene didn't feel like it was a match, tone-wise.

One late summer day just as the light is beginning to turn golden, Tony goes looking for Steve. It’s the kind of afternoon that makes him want to go outside, watch the city fade into evening. Sometimes he takes a spin in the suit, but tonight, he wants to walk around, no destination in mind, with someone who has a sense of humor. 

JARVIS directs him to the penthouse balcony. When Tony steps out into the open air, Steve turns. The late afternoon sun catches in his hair, highlights the lines of his jaw and neck. 

“Christ,” Tony sighs, shaking his head. “Do you just figure out the best place to stand and wait until someone is around to witness how gorgeous you are? Is that a side effect of the serum?”

“Are you asking me if knowing my good sides and aiming them at people was part of the coordinated efforts to fight HYDRA?”

“Maybe,” Tony mutters, briefly reevaluating his parameter of _has sense of humor_. “Feel like a walk, Cap? Need to stretch my legs.”

“Sure, Tony.”

“Don’t get too far ahead of me. I don’t want to be walking along the street minding my own business and then be walloped by your cheekbones.” Tony looks accusingly at Steve’s amused smile. “I mean it, Rogers. We already had our meet-cute.”

Steve snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it.”

“Seems better than explaining what really happened.”

“Meet-cute, huh? I never took you for a rom-com sort of person.”

“Sometimes I like to root for Harry Burns.”

“I would have guessed you were more of a Jess guy.”

Tony blinks.

Steve continues: “You can call me sentimental, but I never came around to the will-they-or-won’t-they trope.”

Tony wonders for a moment if he’s crashed in the suit and is dreaming this. “What,” he hears himself say.

Steve shoots him an amused look. “I assume you’re about to argue with me.”

“ _Argue with_ —Steve.” Tony rubs a hand over his face. “Steve, if I ever try to tell the man who was frozen for 70 years and who, when he found out he’d woken up 70 years in the future, the first thing he said was ‘I had a date’—if I try to tell that guy he’s wrong for not liking unimaginative sitcom writers dragging out a relationship because they have no more ideas—like. Just clobber me with the shield. I’m clearly under some kind of mind-control.” 

“Okay, okay.” Steve is laughing. “I’ll concede the point, Tony.”

“God, you’d better.” Tony pauses. “Okay, wait. Putting aside you know _When Harry Met Sally…_ and associated rom-com terminology well enough to catch my references and yes-and me into a new conversation—Jess? Really?” Tony pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Are you making fun of me for claiming I have a dark side?”

“No. But I’ve seen you nearly take off a HYRDA agent’s arm when he spoiled the ending of _Six Feet Under_ for you.”

Tony mulls over that. “Yeah. Add it to the list of his crimes.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Steve replies dryly.

\--

Two days later, Tony has an email from Maria Hill, subject line, _is this your doing_

Tony knows Hill’s deep commitment to punctuation means this is not a question. He opens the attachment to find a file from earlier that year, detailing an intelligence-gathering mission before they’d located the scepter. There’s a new note under Crimes and Charges, the editing history showing it’s from Steve.

_Spoiled the ending of_ Six Feet Under _purposefully and with malicious intent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love thinking about what pop culture artifacts Steve would pick up/be given to summarize the past 7 decades. (The War Games reference in Winter Soldier makes me laugh every time.) Seemed like Nora Ephron was a safe bet.


End file.
